Salmagundi
by Bambu
Summary: A collection of unfinished alternate book seven concepts.
1. A Quest of His Own

A Quest of His Own

By Bambu

Author's Notes: Following the release of HBP, I toyed with a number of book seven concepts. This was among my favorites. Written in 2007, I never pursued it having other projects at the time. Yet, I have always liked the possibilities of using secondary characters' perspectives to tell the main Potterverse narrative. After all, we know Dobby is a hero in his own right.

Disclaimer: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

~o0o~

Following Dumbledore's funeral, the remaining students had left Hogwarts in a pall of shock and barely restrained grief. Minerva McGonagall swept through the deserted halls of the once-impenetrable castle, spine stiff and unyielding, as she made her way to the headmaster's office. In a tightly-controlled voice she spoke Albus Dumbledore's final password, "Faith."

The gargoyle immediately granted her passage. The second her rigid figure had passed beyond public view, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed with the weight of betrayal and uncertainty and grief. However, before she had ascended two steps, her ascent was stayed by the calling of her name.

"Minerva! Minerva, a moment." Filius Flitwick was practically breathless so quickly was he making his way toward her.

But Minerva, for all her steadfast resolution, could take no more this day. "Tomorrow, Filius. Unless Death Eaters are attacking once again, it will have to wait until tomorrow."

She hadn't even turned to look at her diminutive colleague.

His ragged breath echoed off the stone walls of the circular staircase. "No, Minerva. This can't wait."

Turning her head to look at him, he met her gimlet-eyed stare unflinchingly, and she sighed heavily in the face of the inevitable. She gestured, and he demurred, "Witches first, Minerva. I'm not so grief-stricken to lose all common civility."

Despite her misery, her lips twitched at his courtliness. "All right, Filius. What is it that cannot wait until tomorrow?"

"We need to discuss Severus."

"No! I will not…"

"Yes, Minerva! You will!"

"He- he killed Albus!" Minerva placed a trembling hand against the wall, bracing herself, and struggling to maintain her carefully stoic façade.

"There is much you don't know. Please, Minerva, you must listen to me." Filius had taken several steps beyond the Deputy Headmistress and now touched one tiny hand to her white-knuckled fingers pressing against the stone.

"Why?" She barely got the question beyond her clenched teeth.

"Because all is not as it seems, Minerva. All is not as it seems." Flitwick waved his wand in a succession of movements that would have left his students gasping at their intricacy. However, without an audience, the Charms professor was unaware of the graceful demonstration of his craft.

The gargoyle leapt back into place, the stairwell rotated, carrying the teachers to the landing leading to the headmaster's office.

Suddenly, Minerva's outlook brightened. "No more Cheering Charms, Filius!" She frowned at her colleague. "The next time I'll show you how well I transfigure _former _Charms professors into Hinkypunks!"

Unabashed, the diminutive professor pushed open the door leading into Albus' office. The only changes since the headmaster's death had been a discreet packing of anything which could link him to the Order of the Phoenix, an orderly desktop indicating Minerva's recent occupancy, and the complete and total lack of a beautifully plumed phoenix.

Minerva strode to the leaded window and turned to face her friend.

She knew this was the first time Filius had been in the office since Albus' death, and he blinked rapidly to contain his emotion. Minerva's annoyance lessened considerably. Whatever he had to say must've been very important as he hadn't been out of the hospital wing for more than a day since the attack.

Filius cleared his throat. It sounded more like the cry of a small Crup than a wizard, but it was obvious he was having difficulty speaking now that they were in private.

Minerva crossed her arms and pinched her lips. "Well?"

The Charms professor straightened his already impeccably straight tie, and Minerva's harsh expression softened. Apparently it was enough to encourage her colleague.

"You know," he squeaked, then cleared his throat again. "I've carefully maintained my neutrality in the escalating hostilities. I've never thought a schoolteacher would make a particularly good warrior, Minerva. But, I see now that I must make a stand, and I've decided to stand up for my friend."

She was quick, both in mind and spirit, and her wand was pointed at Filius' head even as she spat, "_Severus_ is your _friend_?"

"And Albus. They're both my friends, Minerva." Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He knew Minerva McGonagall was an extremely powerful witch, and even if she had been weaker this year than in the past, and had suffered the loss of her long-time mentor, he knew she was capable of using lethal magic.

"Explain, and do so quickly." Her tone brooked no quarter.

Filius glanced at the slumbering portrait of Albus Dumbledore, and swallowed hard. "One moment." Once again, in enviable sleight of hand, Filius cast a modified _Muffliato_.

Minerva didn't recognize the spell, but she noticed the rather visual effect of innumerable portraits silently protesting their exclusion from the conversation taking place. An icy tendril of foreknowledge chilled her spine.

"Severus gave me his memories that night," he said.

Her free hand flew to her throat and her wand-hand dropped a few inches, wavering as shock coursed through her. "No! He- but _why_?"

"So that when the end comes – provided it is the one we seek – I will be able to present evidence in his favor."

Minerva's knees buckled.

Flitwick managed to cushion her fall. He then levitated her to the squashy armchair in front of the small pot-bellied stove in one corner of the office. Taking another chair, he gave her a moment to calm herself. He was impressed that she hadn't relinquished hold of her wand, even in her shock.

She rapidly dismissed the possibility of Filius referring to Voldemort's victory, and settled to the daunting task of finding Severus Snape, avowed murderer of Albus Dumbledore, innocent.

"Just how, Filius, did he give you his memories?"

"They are now my own, Minerva." He spoke with a quiet dignity.

She repeated herself, "No! He—but—" She shut her mouth with an audible snap and collected her thoughts.

Filius cast an _Imperturbable_ over the fire, assuring their further privacy.

"It's no wonder you were unconscious for two days. How much do you know?" she asked.

He smiled wryly, "Everything of pertinence. I know why Albus trusted Severus without question. I know why Severus was forced to kill Albus—" he raised a hand, forestalling her interruption, "—it was on Albus' orders, Minerva. It wasn't a choice Severus wanted to make."

Minerva whispered, "Thank Merlin," in a manner which made it obvious her burden of grief had been two-fold.

Flitwick nodded in acknowledgment, but continued to speak. "I also know about the Unbreakable Vow Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange forced on Severus last summer—" Her gasp startled him. "You didn't know?"

"I didn't know." Suddenly her face was unmistakably feline, like a predator which has discovered its prey. "But it explains a great deal. Albus kept things much too close to his chest. If he were here—" She blinked a few times, but anger burned fiercely in her eyes. "If Albus were here, I'd hex him myself. He knows— _knew _what I thought about so much secrecy. It's a mistake to keep too much from those who need to know."

Filius nodded his head. "I quite agree with you, which is why I'm here now. If we are to be successful, then our efforts must be coordinated. If I'm to pass you information from He-Who-Must - _oh bother_ \- from Voldemort's inner circle, then, Minerva, we must keep each other's confidence. I know, for example, that young Potter has been given a quest by Albus."

"One moment," she interrupted. Then, illustrating that she was no less a Mistress of her craft than he was a Master of his, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and transformed it into a thin, translucent bubble. It grew until it completely surrounded the two teachers, even passing through the stone floor.

Their conversation was now completely private.

From the corner of the room, a small figure, comically dressed in everything he owned, nodded his head. It was as he thought. The dark professor didn't want to hurt the kind headmaster. Privately, Dobby agreed with the cat-witch and the little professor. Information shouldn't be kept from those who needed to know.

Harry Potter needed to know.

Dobby thought very hard. Harry Potter was stubborn and very angry. He wouldn't listen right away, and time was not to be wasted.

Who would listen? Who would be willing to believe that the dark professor was still on their side?

Long ears flopped as Dobby shook his head over the idea of Harry Potter's Wheezy listening or being fair. Maybe in another few years; sometimes wizardkind were slow to gain maturity.

Dobby turned his eyes toward the two professors in earnest, urgent discussion beyond his ability to listen. While he would have liked to know what they were saying, it was unnecessary as their unity of purpose was expressed in their gestures.

Who was open-minded enough to listen? Who would listen to what a house-elf had to say?

Dobby bobbed his head sharply, once. Miss Fuzzy Granger would listen. She was very kind. She would listen. And, he thought, she would help.

Between one blink and the next, Dobby had Apparated silently as is the way of house-elves.

He had a quest of his own.


	2. A Broader Perspective

A Broader Perspective

By Bambu

Author's Note: After the release of HBP, my mind reeled with numerous thoughts about where JKR would take her final book. As the past six books were Hogwarts based, I assumed the seventh would follow in this vein.

I pursued a number of alternate book seven scenarios, completing several, but at one point in 2007, I began to play with a road-trip scenario in which Harry and Hermione use their Muggle upbringing as a way to escape and hide while they hunted for the Horcruxes.

Once book seven was released and the reality of the camping trip from hell sprawled across 200-300 pages, I abandoned this concept. Still, there are enough bits and pieces I like to revisit from time-to-time to remind myself what could have been.

Disclaimer: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

~o0o~

The Weasleys' home had never been as resplendent as the night Fleur Delacour claimed the family's eldest son for her husband. Skeptics among those gathered to witness the nuptials had their concerns obliterated by the bride's incandescent joy.

The festivities were long and merry, the food and drink savory and generous, and Hermione Granger, guest and family friend, waited at the reception just long enough to determine that Ron Weasley was not going to ask her to dance before she made her escape. She had seen the gobsmacked look on his face when Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur's teenaged sister, had arrived at the Burrow. Once before, Hermione had watched him flaunt a relationship in her face, and she wasn't about to endure it again.

Chatting with other guests, Hermione maneuvered through the colorful crowd, making sure to speak with Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood before quietly slipping through the enormous marquee's entrance.

"Leaving?"

She should have known. "I'm tired, Harry," she replied. "Tomorrow's a full day."

"We leave in two days, Hermione. Surely you could stay for a dance with me?"

Hermione finally looked into his eyes. They'd darkened over the summer into a deep viridian, and she knew it was a combination of grief and resolve which had changed him. It had changed them all, but the difference in Harry was the most profound.

"Please, just let me go," she requested. Involuntarily her gaze slipped past him, to where an ungainly redhead in forest green dress robes – which matched her own dress - danced with a petite silver-blonde girl in pearlescent lavender.

Harry turned his head, and when he saw what had gained her attention, the muscles worked under the smooth skin of his jaw. Illustrating that he was indeed Lily Potter's son as well as his father's, he said not a word, but wrapped Hermione's small hand in his Quidditch-roughened palm before leading her from the tent.

Together, the two friends crossed the uneven ground of the Weasley's back garden, rounding the corner of the house until they reached the front stoop. For a wonder they saw none of the other wedding guests.

Sitting on twin stone benches the two friends stared at the moon while it played peek-a-boo through the clouds.

"He doesn't mean it, you know. He cares about you."

She sighed. "I know he does. It's just …" Her heart was a little too raw for this conversation as unbidden tears blurred her vision. "… just … if he can treat me like this when we haven't even –"

Harry crossed to kneel in front of her – careless of his own dress robes - his face filled with sincerity. "But it'll be different when you're together."

She smoothed his perpetually unruly hair off his troubled brow, the livid scar merely a shadow in the uneven light. "I used to think that. And after the … after Dumbledore's funeral … we were so close then. I thought -"

There had been so much promise, but it had faded during the days of summer, amidst preparations for the wedding. As if ashamed of having shown his vulnerability, Ron had avoided being alone with Hermione until she took the very broad hint. It had hurt, but it had only been a dull ache in the face of her shattered dreams of a seventh year at Hogwarts, or her childish hopes of being Head Girl, or her last, innocent belief that Professor Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world who could always make things right.

Instead of wallowing, Hermione had thrown all her energies into helping Harry pin down likely candidates for the Horcruxes – engaging Minerva McGonagall as a Secret-Kept confidante and source of information. Harry had reluctantly agreed, but had been very pleased with the results.

Once Hermione had stopped paying attention to Ron in 'that' way, he had relaxed and they'd mostly returned to their former relationship. She had hardened her heart; her folly tonight was the last flicker of hope, but that flame, too, had been snuffed.

"He doesn't know how to show you what he feels."

"He shows it very well, Harry, and you know it. Besides, it's better this way. Fewer distractions." She plucked at the hunter green lace on her sleeve.

He laid one hand atop the restless movement of her fingers, stilling their fretting. "I don't believe that."

She slanted her eyes at him. "You know you do." 

"Hermione." There was a warning tone in his voice.

"I'm not going to say more, but we can't afford anything to distract us from our purpose. In a way I should thank Ron."

"What do you mean?"

"After tonight, I won't ever be in danger from him again."

Harry shot to his feet. "What? What the bloody hell does that mean?

"Calm down." She, too, rose to her feet, surprised to realize that he had grown and was now quite a bit taller than she.

"Don't you trust him?" He demanded.

"With my life, Harry. Just not with my heart." And then it was too much, and then she began to cry like a seventeen-year-old witch whose heart had been broken for the second time.

Harry, as awkward as any young man around a crying woman, patted her shoulder. That made her laugh, and then he muttered, "Bollocks to this," and pulled her into a rough but sympathetic hug.

Wrapping her arms around him, she held him as tightly as he held her, and cried until she had no tears left. Then she tucked her disappointed hopes into the far recesses of her heart … never to take them out again.

Raising her head, she brushing ineffectually at the mess she'd made of his robes. "Thank you. I'm sorry about …."

"No matter." He drew his new wand from the sheath along his forearm to cast a non-verbal Cleansing Charm. Then he pointed the slender ebony wood at Hermione's face and she felt the telltale prickle of magic on her skin. He had removed the evidence of her tears.

Just then the twins called out that the fireworks were about to go off, and they returned to the festivities before their absence was noted.

.

.

.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron did indeed depart the Burrow two days later, leaving two broomsticks behind in the Weasleys' shed. The fact that brooms couldn't be shrunk to hide made them liabilities.

For the following nine months – enough time for Fleur to bear the first Weasley grandchild, a little girl named Violet, with her mum's delicate features and her dad's bounty of reddish gold locks – Harry, Ron, and Hermione essentially disappeared from wizarding sight.

Their first night after leaving the Burrow, Hermione, following a suggestion McGonagall had made at the wedding, insisted they stay in a Bed and Breakfast Inn, wanting to acclimate Ron to straddling both Muggle and magical worlds while they traveled. They chose Looe, close enough to Ottery St. Catchpole for Ron to recognize it, while still being far enough from his home to be unfamiliar. The ocean air was brisk and the summer sun warm, and it was a thoroughly auspicious start to their quest.

They had two rooms, none of the three quite sophisticated enough to ask for a very large room, but they congregated in Harry and Ron's room to go over their plan and the most recent information McGonagall had given them. Ron cast a Silencing Spell while Harry jabbed and flicked his wand, casting _Muffliato_.

Hermione admired their facility with their wands and sealed the doors and windows of the large room. She glanced out the window at the flickering lights of the harbor elongating and fracturing in the waves of the bay. Behind her, Harry and Ron settled onto one of the beds, the springs creaking under their weight.

"I think McGonagall's got a spy in the Death Eaters," Ron mused aloud.

Hermione turned her head quickly. It was a thought she'd had for the past few weeks, but she was surprised that Ron had picked up on it.

Harry glowered. "It had better not be Malfoy. Or Snape."

"I have no idea who it is," Hermione commented, "but I trust Professor McGonagall. For all we know her information comes from Remus Lupin when he's undercover with that horrid Greyback."

Ron set his chin. "That one's mine."

Hermione looked back and forth between the two young men, incongruously masculine against the backdrop of the dainty wallpaper and duvets in the quaint room. "I don't want to start a row …"

"Then don't," Ron cut her off, his entire manner suddenly pugnacious.

"But," she began.

"Really, Hermione. Just don't lecture us in that bossy tone." Harry pushed his glasses higher on his nose, light glinting off the much-repaired lenses, inadvertently obscuring his eyes.

"Fine," she huffed and crossed her arms. "I only wanted to point out that we're probably going to run into more than one Death Eater, but we shouldn't fight them."

"Hermione!" Harry snapped as Ron launched to his feet.

"You're barking!" the redhead shouted.

It took a few moments for the two young men to run out of invective, but Hermione tilted her chin, waiting for them to be quiet. Finally she said, "We have to sort our priorities? Fighting a Death Eater or two," _even if it's Snape and Malfoy_, she added mentally, "**or** destroying the Horcruxes and V-Voldemort? Which serves our long-term goals? Which gives us a better chance for success?"

To give them full credit, neither young wizard spoke for a long time. Hermione again waited them out, perching atop the small stool in front of the room's vanity. The non-magical mirror reflected a scene of three young people in quiet contemplation, but the charmingly decorated room was electric with tension.

Ron's knuckles whitened. "All right."

Harry nodded. "It's annoying how often you're right."

She laughed, relieved they'd understood. "Let's just hope I improve my average."

"If it was any higher, 'Mione, you'd be really scary." As he leaned back, Ron's head clunked against the wall, and his eyes closed.

All the tension drained from the room, and Harry chuckled. "Brilliant but scary."

"What?" she asked.

"It's what Ron said."

"When exactly did Ron say this?"

"In," Harry was clearly amused by her reaction, "when was that anyway, Ron? First year? Second?"

"I'm sure it was first." The redhead opened one eye. "We knew she was half-mad even then."

Hermione rose from the tufted pink stool and crossed the room, canceling her locking spells as she went. "I'm so glad to know your opinion of me is so high."

"There's no one else quite like you, Hermione."

Mollified by Harry's comment she paused at the door, fingers encircling the doorknob. "Did you really think I was mad?"

Ron's raised his head, red hair gleaming in the light, blue eyes shining. "Brilliant, 'Mione. We've always known you were brilliant."

Her ears turned pink. "Thanks." She opened the door. "And stop calling me 'Mione!"

The next day they took the train to Godric's Hollow as Harry had originally planned. They used the Polyjuice Potion Hermione had brewed while staying at the Burrow, and the three looked like university students on late holiday. Ron was disguised as a mahogany-haired young man, Harry as a blond and Hermione as a raven-haired young woman with very red lips. Harry called her Snow White.

When they arrived, the three friends passed through the Muggle village, buying fish and chips before hiking to the outskirts to find Harry's first home. After considerable time and not a few scratches, they found the house, still under the Fidelius Charm Albus Dumbledore had placed the site when Harry was barely old enough to walk. It was in a sad state of disrepair, much of the upper storey had collapsed and many of the windows had been shattered, but the sign on the mail slot still read _Potter _in peeling gold lettering.

While his closest friends hung back to give him a little privacy, Harry has mounted the three steps leading to the front door. His fingers shook as he touched his family's name. Then, his shoulders straightened and Harry Potter entered his home.

As one, Hermione and Ron followed behind as Harry passed from room-to-room in the badly damaged house. Somehow the details – such as splintered wood and faded cloth – would never be as sharp in Hermione's memory as the grim expression on Harry's face, nor the tears swimming in his jade green eyes.

When they'd completed the first circuit of the house, Harry left to pay his respects to his parents. Without having to be reminded, he covered himself with his father's Invisibility Cloak. As the golden disk of the sun dipped toward the west, Harry and Ron searched the abandoned house, and Hermione planted a small evergreen between Lily and James Potter's graves, sheltering them from the elements. Using her hands instead of her wand, she knelt in the thick grassy groundcover, her jeans growing stained from the residual damp from the rain the day before.

"Thanks." Harry came up behind her, gripping her shoulder. "I don't think anyone's taken care of them since they were put here. Maybe Remus, but I don't think so."

"I wanted to show my respects. After all, they gave me my best friend, didn't they?"

"Hey!" Ron protested, coming within hearing range. "What am I, then?"

"That's easy. You're my other best friend."

Harry laughed. It sounded a bit rusty, but it was a real laugh, and Hermione was thrilled to hear it.

"Is that what you say?" Harry then affected a falsetto. "Hullo, I'm Hermione Granger, and this is my best friend, Harry Potter, and over there is my _other_ best friend, Ron Weasley."

Ron shoved Harry. Harry shoved back, and then he tickled Hermione. Then they all pushed, shoved, and tickled, laughing and giggling like the second years they'd never had the chance to be.

A few minutes later, Hermione caught her breath and said, "That's not quite it," she said. "Really!"

"Birds!" Ron muttered, giving her a sidelong glance.

She ignored him, just as she'd carefully ignored any and all suggestive comments he'd made since the wedding.

Once they'd left the Burrow, Ron seemed to remember that he liked Hermione. But she wasn't to be swayed, and reminded herself that he only paid attention to her when there was no other … blonder … company to be had. She hoped that one day soon that fact wouldn't hurt.

While they remained at Godric's Hollow, they took advantage of the house, sleeping inside the once-pretty dining room – the only room now whose windows were unbroken and whose doors would close properly. Hermione patched some of the faded wallpaper and Ron repaired the table and chairs. Harry cleared the debris and cast Freshening Charms to dispel the damp. The first night they barricaded themselves inside with every telltale security spell they knew.

The next morning, Hedwig flew toward London; thereafter, Bill Weasley became a frequent correspondent. All three would introduce additional spells to their repertoire as they traveled and learned; Hermione's would be gleaned from McGonagall and her extremely well-informed spy, and from any book the young witch could lay her hands on. Ron was the recipient of Bill's expertise, and Harry, at long last, became a regular pen-pal to his father's last remaining friend.

The friends only stayed in Godric's Hollow for a week searching the house and grounds. It had given them a starting place, but yielded nothing more than a couple of mementos for Harry – a hair clip which had belonged to his mum and a single cufflink which had the initial _P_ engraved in its gold surface.

Hermione insisted each artifact be checked for signs of Dark magic or a piece of Voldemort's soul, but they were nothing more than small pieces missed by the scavenging hordes who had scoured the grounds before Dumbledore had intervened.

After leaving Godric's Hollow, their quest took them to several disparate regions of Britain. They traveled mostly by Muggle means as there were concerns about their Apparition trails being tracked by their enemies. To them, that meant the Ministry as well as the Death Eaters. They shared a small magical tent which they pitched wherever they could find the best protection. Occasionally they slept in an inn, but they ate when they could, and traveled in disguise most of the time. They grew used to the horrid taste of Polyjuice and cycled through hairs of people they knew, although Hermione never again used one of Ginny's hairs after she saw the naked anguish on Harry's face when she'd transformed that one time.

With Minerva McGonagall Hermione kept up a steady correspondence. Each letter the newly instated headmistress sent contained snippets of vital information, and over time, the letters grew more personal as the two witches, burdened by their responsibilities, overcame the age difference and recognized the kindred spirit in one another.

_My dear Hermione,_

_I have it on good authority that a search of the orphanage where __**that boy**__ was discovered might prove useful._

McGonagall's insider – whom Hermione was increasingly convinced had to be Severus Snape - lead them to Rowena Ravenclaw's family heirloom. The raven's claw pendant was found hidden under the floorboards of the abandoned orphanage where Tom Riddle was born. All agreed the location was a predictable choice, they rationalized it had been one of the first Voldemort had made. The less remembered about getting it out of the orphanage the better. All three would have nightmares for the remainder of their lives about what they'd encountered in the shell of a burnt-out building.

Two days after acquiring the Ravenclaw Horcrux, Hermione had a moment of 'why didn't we think of this sooner.' She mentioned her idea to Harry, who, in turn, asked Remus to check Kreacher's midden at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher, the miserable house-elf, had secreted Slytherin's locket in a broken, Black Family china teacup.

Harry was adamant that he be present when each item was relieved of Voldemort's taint, and he allowed McGonagall to solicit Mad-Eye Moody to assist Remus Lupin and Bill Weasley. Moody might be ridiculously paranoid, but the old Auror had survived all manner of Dark attacks. His advice was greatly valued.

Deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, a very small group assembled to dismantle the Horcruxes. Remus, being a Dark creature, was able to handle most of the _objets de Voldemort_ without fear. In addition to Harry, Hermione, and Ron, Minerva McGonagall arrived with Moody and Lupin, and then Arthur Weasley and Bill Weasley arrived together. Bill's curse-breaking experience saved everyone's lives when he recognized a secondary lethal layer of spells on the raven's claw pendant. They were a complicated and vicious Tibetan Bloodline Curse, deadly to anyone of the same bloodline as the victim.

The only injury during the dismantling ended up being to Moody's prosthetic eye and two pillars in the underground room of the castle. McGonagall shored up the castle, something she would attend to several times until the damaged supports were repaired. Several weeks after the loss of Moody's eye, he received a new prosthetic which he decided was a vast improvement over the old one. It had an additional advantage of looking more human than the original.

When the two Horcruxes had been neutralized, the Weasleys and Harry and Ron and Lupin returned to the Burrow for two nights' worth of rest, meals, and hot water.

The first morning Hermione descended the narrow stairs into the kitchen, her hair was still wet. It had taken three applications of shampoo to get her hair completely clean, and her fingers were wrinkled from the extended stay under the hot water. It had been heaven to get clean.

She found Harry at the kitchen table sharing a cuppa with Mrs. Weasley, while Mrs. Weasley read aloud her most recent letter from Ginny, who had returned to Hogwarts. The naked longing on Harry's face inspired Mrs. Weasley to pat Harry's hand every now and then.

When she'd finished reading, Harry cleared his throat. "Will you … er … will you tell her we're thinking of her, Mrs. Weasley?"

Not one to catch subtleties, Mrs. Weasley couldn't fail to recognize Harry's need. "Of course I will, Harry. I'd be happy to. I know she thinks of you often."

Then seeing Hermione in the doorway, she rose to put breakfast together. The three left two days later laden with all manner of good things to eat.

.

.

.

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon were kept fit, flying missives all over the British Isles as the three friends sought the final Horcruxes. In November, the weather grew colder and wetter, and Hermione withdrew enough funds from her Gringotts' account to buy a third owl which she named George and not, as Ron had suspected with a glower, after one of the twins. George, a barn owl, had unremarkable markings, except it looked as if he wore a beard, and was less likely to draw attention to himself than Hedwig.

They practiced dueling every day, and began to learn some rough forms of hand-to-hand fighting skills.

The first time Harry broached the topic, they'd been camping along the River Wharfe in Yorkshire. They were working their way toward Little Hangleton and had found the solitude along the river's banks conducive to camping and practice. The three were leaner, faster, and more accurate than ever before.

INSERT RIVER WHARFE NORTH YORKSHIRE IMAGE HERE

He tried to demonstrate his point using Ron as his opponent. Regrettably, Ron's height allowed him to easily evade Harry.

"Bollocks!" Ron danced out of the way, laughing. "I can cast faster than this!"

A short spate of red and green hexfire dotted the sky as they dueled in mock earnest. Identical grins lit the wizards' faces with testosterone-charged glee.

Harry blocked a _Rictusempra _and fired off a Jelly-legs Jinx. "What happens," he called, "if we're disarmed?"

Ron dodged the streak of yellow and sent back a red flare of a Conjunctivitis Hex. "I won't be!" he crowed, dancing out of Harry's reach, but not beyond Harry's quick reflexes.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Harry was uncommonly quick, and he was faster when he was at a disadvantage. Blindly executing a contorting twist of his torso, Harry swirled his wand and nonverbally knocked Ron onto his back.

"_Finite Incantatem!"_ Hermione restored Harry's sight before he loped over to Ron.

For a moment the river's fast-flowing gurgle was louder than the sound of the young men catching their breaths. Hermione kicked a twig with her foot.

His breath ragged, Harry placed one foot (clad in grotty trainers) atop Ron's wand hand. "See," he panted. "You're completely vulnerable. We're not giving up any advantage we can find."

Ron freed his hand, then scrambled to his feet, dusting off twigs and greenery from his jeans. "Yeah, I still remember the look on Malfoy's face when 'Mione slapped him silly. Left a mark, that did."

For a moment, his face held that same transported look that he'd worn the day the imposter, Mad-Eye Moody, had turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret.

"The point, Ron," Harry said quietly, "is that Malfoy didn't do anything to retaliate. He was completely unprepared for a physical attack."

Two weeks before Christmas found Hermione, Ron, and Harry in Harrogate. While there Hermione used most of her remaining galleons to hire a karate instructor for a week's worth of private lessons in how to fall, how to hit, and how to break someone's hold. She was incredibly glad they remained in town for the week, and made use of the hot water every day, sometimes morning and night. By the end of the week she, Harry, and Ron were sore, limping, and bruised, but they could drop an opponent and break his fingers to free themselves from a tight grip.

Hermione lay atop her bed that last night at the Swan, her head propped upon lavender-scented pillows, reading her most recent letter from McGonagall.

_My dear girl,_

_I know you are in hiding, but let me be the first to wish you a Happy Christmas, and all the joys which might attend to such felicitations._

_Our absent friend _as they had begun to refer to their informant _tells me that your efforts have gone unnoticed thus far, but to remind young Mr. Weasley not to go about as himself. I might use his turn of phrase but I believe it would be too revealing, and yes you have met. Nonetheless, Mr. Weasley was spotted him in Matlock a fortnight last. He is lucky to have so many siblings, but you cannot be too careful in this endeavor. I fear all our lives hang in the balance._

Hermione hobbled across the room to knock on the connecting door between her room and the boys'. She heard grunts and groans from the other side, before Ron opened it. He shuffled back to his unmade bed and flopped across it, face down and groaning.

Harry lay on the other bed with his forearm across his eyes. "Whose ruddy idea was this anyway?"

"Yours!" Hermione and Ron replied in unison. All three laughed and Hermione eased herself onto the bed next to Harry.

"Right," he murmured. "Great idea, horrid consequences."

Ron, who had at last been convinced of the necessity of the physical training, remarked quietly, "We'll all be glad of it when it saves our lives."

The invisible erumpent in the room trumpeted a warning as the weight of the task these young people had taken on descended like one of its hooves. In the heavy atmosphere, Hermione hadn't the heart to mention her letter, and before she was aware of it, they were all asleep.

The next morning, Hermione read the public contents of her letter to Harry and Ron while waiting for breakfast to be delivered. For a time they tossed about ideas for the final Horcruxes.

When the bellhop rolled the aromatic trolley into the room they tabled the serious topic for a few minutes, bandying abut complaints and teasing one another about their aches and pains.

As their mixed grill was devoured bite-by-bite, snippets of other topics slipped into their conversation. Their days were consumed with research, dueling, martial arts, and survival, and there was always something to discuss. In general, however, they rarely spoke of their enemies individually. Of Snape, they had never heard a word, publicly, but Harry looked for him, worrying that the traitor would be on the same path as they … only in direct opposition.

"I know we've avoided talking about this, but I think we have to broach the subject." Hermione cut her tomato, layering it between two bits of bacon before taking her bits. She eyed her companions, both digging into their meal like Norbert noshing on chicken legs soaked in Old Ogden's. "You already know who I suspect is McGonagall's mole."

"What mole?" Ron asked.

"Oh, sorry. I should have said spy. It's a Muggle saying."

"I can't believe she won't tell you who it is," Harry said around a bite of toast dripping with lemon curd.

"You know why. She doesn't want to compromise any of us." Hermione lipped the bite from her tongue, letting the flavors burst in her mouth. They didn't have hot meals often enough for her to take a simple meal for granted.

Ron snorted. "She doesn't want to tick off ol' Chosen One, here."

"Ron!"

Harry pushed away from the table, and began pacing. "Snape was a brilliant git, I'll give you that."

"While we're talking about Professor … er … Snape, I've never understood why he didn't kill you that night, Harry?"

"I'm Voldemort's," was the immediate reply.

"But that doesn't make sense. If you were V-Voldemort's to deal with, then why didn't he just Stun you and take you with him … it would have made a proper triumph for the Death Eaters. Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore on the same night." Her fingers flew to her mouth as if she'd only just realized what she'd said. "Oh!"

"You do have a point." Ron snagged the last scone, carefully spreading clotted cream on one half. His attention ostensibly absorbed by this demanding task. He didn't look at Harry.

Harry had spun on his heels to glare at his staunchest friends. "That bastard! How could either of you …"

"That's enough, Harry!" Hermione interrupted. "You know what? We're your friends … your best friends. Well," she tried a little humor, "your best friend and your _other_ best friend. We're not going to lie to you Harry. Ever. If you want a crowd of sycophants around you then just go … go … knock on Rufus Scrimgeour's door!"

"That's not what I want!"

"I know that. But you have to stop letting emotions cloud your judgment. That's what we've been practicing for all these weeks to do. To train ourselves to think and react in concert." She gave him a speculative look. "Are you practicing your Occlumency?"

"There's no need to cringe. I'm not going to bite your arm off!"

Hermione just tapped her foot. "You mean unlike last time I asked?"

"Well," he flushed. "I was still a bit …"

"Leave him alone, 'Mione," Ron interjected. "Remus has been teaching him stuff."

"Harry?"

"Yes! All right?" Harry was obviously exasperated, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm practicing. Every night." He held up a dirty hand – it had been three days since their last bath and Hermione was looking forward to the inn at Brighton that very evening – to forestall her next comment. "Just like Remus told me."

"Just like Professor Snape tried to teach you as well."

"Hermione!" This time it was Ron who called her to order.

"It's true, and you both know it. He might have been a nightmare for a teacher, but he knew what he was talking about. Don't give me that look, Harry, you invaded his privacy."

"He's a git!"

"He saved your life! Again and again. And mine, and Ron's." Hermione slumped back into the chair she'd pulled up to the table. "I just don't understand it. After first year, I thought he was on our side. I felt so guilty for thinking he was after the Stone. You know."

"Biding his time," Harry said angrily.

"I don't think so. No one knew Voldemort could come back at that point." He was protecting us because it was the right thing to do."

"What about Sirius?"

Even Ron had to protest. "Harry, that wasn't Snape's fault. Besides, I think Mione's got a point." He ignored her side comment to use her 'proper' name. "Part of what we've been doing is studying tactics and strategies. What if killing Dumbledore was planned?"

Harry spun, his wand suddenly in his hand. This topic was guaranteed to upset him, and no matter how hard Hermione and Ron tried to desensitize him, they'd been unsuccessful.

Hermione stepped between the two men. "You promised, Harry. You promised to listen with an open mind. I know it's hard. I can't imagine watching that … what you saw … but, for once, Ron has an extremely good point."

"Thanks, Hermione," Ron said dryly.

"I didn't mean it like that. It's just I think you may be right. It would make sense after everything else."

"You just don't want to give up your admiration of the greasy git!" Harry practically spat the words. "Evil's a strong word!" he sneered.

"Harry! Think! This is a man who was a spy for decades, who walked a very narrow path. Professor Dumbledore, whom we all admired, trusted him. He told you that over and over again."

"Dumbledore made mistakes!"

"He did," Ron agreed. "But I don't think he made one this time. I don't think he would have taken a chance with Snape … or you. I think … I think maybe Snape was trying to help you that night … out by Hagrid's."

"Help me? By cursing me? By knocking me flat on my back so that other Death Eater could _Crucio_ me?" Harry punched the wall, and then hissed as the skin of his knuckles split. He sucked on the blood.

"But he stopped them. He ordered the others to leave. And then he told you to close your mind." Hermione put her hand on his arm. "Don't you see? He was telling you how to defeat Voldemort. He was helping you."

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and back. Each was nodding encouragingly. It was so unusual that the two agreed Harry actually sat back down on the bed. For the rest of the day, they discussed Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, the events of their sixth year, and especially the night the headmaster was killed.

In the end, Harry agreed to withhold his judgment, especially if Snape was still actively McGonagall's spy. They knew how she felt about Dumbledore, and there was no way she would've accepted help from Snape unless she was absolutely certain of his loyalties, no matter the outward signs … including Dumbledore's death. They all agreed that there was too much they didn't know, even now.

They went out for dinner that night, still in disguise, spending the last of their Muggle money on a decent meal.

The following morning as they were packing to go to the Burrow for Christmas Day, Hedwig arrived with good news. McGonagall's spy - _Snape_ Hermione's mind automatically provided, especially after the day before - had given them a lead on the Hufflepuff cup. It appeared to be in France, in the hands of a private collector. That would account for five Horcruxes.

They made plans to accompany Bill and Remus to Lyons on Boxing Day, which meant that they would be able to have Christmas Day with their families. Harry got to spend time with Ginny, pretending they weren't watching each other constantly, and Hermione was able to see her parents for several hours. Ron was quite content to drool over his new sister-in-law, something which Hermione discovered didn't bother her in the slightest.

Was it possible that she no longer cared in that way? Was it possible, she wondered, to get over a serious, years-long fancy for someone in such a short few months? Had it been just a schoolgirl fantasy … something which vanished in the bright light of adulthood? She wasn't sure exactly, but Hermione was extremely relieved to no longer be carrying a torch for her _other_ best friend.

When they returned from Lyons, Hermione had a newfound respect for Bill Weasley. His reputation had preceded him, and even with his newfound scars – and Hermione shuddered as she remembered the collectors long, scarlet-coated fingernails tracing one of Bill's half-healed scars, almost as if the witch had wanted to collect him – his air of authority and confidence had been captivating. He and Remus negotiated the price for the cup like the accomplished professionals that they were.

Regrettably when they destroyed this Horcrux, for which they had to wait until after the first of the year, Mad-Eye's prosthetic leg was damaged beyond repair, as was the double-handled cup.

"A small price to pay," McGonagall sniffed.

"It wasn't yer heirloom," growled Mad-Eye.

"True. But consider yourself lucky, Alastor. The Order is paying for your replacement parts. Fairly soon, you'll be a whole new man."

Moody's laughter sounded like the bark of some wild animal, but McGonagall joined him, taunting each other. "Hufflepuff!"

"Gryffindor!"

"Thank you," the headmistress said primly. She tucked a stray hair into her hat, before leading her colleagues to her private chambers, where she poured everyone a glass of very good brandy.

The trio accepted room and board for a night while a blizzard raged outside the ancient castle they'd called home for six years. Hermione found herself Disillusioned and dodging the Auror's patrols as she paced familiar corridors and tasted the bittersweet knowledge that she had missed her final year at school. No NEWTs to call her own. She'd made the right decision, but it didn't hurt any the less. It was easier when they were out in the world, far away from memories of their student days. But now, Neville and Seamus and Lavender and Parvati were sleeping snug in their little Gryffindor beds, several stories above her. Nothing would ever be the same. She would never be able to go back.

Unexpectedly, Hermione found herself pacing the hallway outside Professor Snape's old office. She wondered if he missed the school, or was he as unhappy in his current place as he had been here. She wondered if he'd ever found himself displaced from his peers before realizing that his school years were even more bleak than hers. With a final look at the closed door to his office – now someone else's – Hermione climbed the steps to the guest quarters. Her heart heavy.

The only other staff member who was aware of their presence was Madam Pomfrey, who gave them each a physical exam before they set out on the next leg of their journey.

"Mr. Potter you need to wear another pair of socks in those Muggle shoes, otherwise you're courting frostbite." She bustled about the infirmary and by the time they left Hermione, Ron, and Harry each had a small collection of vials containing potions they might need, including a Blood Replenishing Potion. "Carry these with you,' she said, blinking rapidly. "You can always find me here, even during the holidays. You needn't bother Minerva. Come directly here."

Harry hugged her, thanking her for her generosity. The others following suit.

After that, they headed south, toward Little Hangleton, and this time, Harry and Ron had insisted they use broomsticks. "It's to avoid frostbite, Hermione. Like Madam Pomfrey said."

Hermione gave in. She wasn't fond of traveling in such cold weather, but she wasn't a very secure flyer. They traveled Disillusioned and in a wedge formation. It was amazing how much faster they were able to travel. It only took them two days to reach the town where Voldemort's family had lived.

They knew Remus Lupin had searched the manor house and the hovel after Dumbledore's death, but Harry wanted to get a feel for the area. With snow on the ground, the geography was very different, but Harry still recognized the shack and remembered Bob Ogden's being chased off by the Voldemort's malicious grandfather and uncle.

They only spent two days camping in the woods above the Gaunt hovel, remaining heavily Disillusioned the entire time. Harry added the precaution of draping his Invisibility Cloak over their tent, just in case.

Other than their brush with the Inferi at the orphanage, this was their closest encounter with Death Eaters thus far. While observing the Riddle house they'd seen a small detachment of wizards and witches come and go. Hermione was shocked to recognize Penelope Clearwater as one of them. She had known Voldemort supporters could be anyone, but until the moment she saw Penny place the death head mask on her face, Hermione hadn't really believed it could be people she had liked.

Ron rolled over onto the snow, ignoring the damp and cold. "I wonder if Percy knows."

Then the obvious assumption struck them all at the same time. Ron swallowed hard, and Harry laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I – I …." Hermione trailed off weakly. There really was nothing to say; as far ask they knew Percy Weasley was still engaged to the former Ravenclaw.

They broke camp the next morning sobered by what they'd seen, and all were nervous about their coming rendezvous with Arthur Weasley.

Mid-day at the bandstand in Darlington's South Park found Harry pacing, Hermione performing mental Arithmantic equations about defending their position in the small pavilion and Ron nervously watching for his father. None of the three noticed the nascent buds on tree limbs nor the fact that the snow barely covered the ground. The park wasn't crowded, but there were a number of nannies pushing prams and herding children, bundled in brightly colored anoraks against the weather. Others strolled through the park's walkways during their lunch breaks.

Hermione looked down the reverse trajectory path and was taken aback by the sight of two young women laughing as they gossiped. It seemed so normal, and Hermione felt entirely disconnected from that reality. Had she ever been that carefree?

Fortunately Mr. Weasley arrived just then. Hermione and Harry shared a look for his Muggle clothing. It was suitable, woolen black trousers and a heavy jumper, but the maroon color clashed with the fading red in his hair. Surprisingly, Hermione thought it made him look older.

"Hullo, Ron," he said, grasping his youngest son's hand tightly. His intelligent eyes searched Ron's face for any sign of distress. "Harry, Hermione." He nodded to the other two. "I hope you three are hungry. Molly's been cooking for days. She doesn't think you eat on your own." He gave them all an assessing once-over. "I'm not sure I disagree with her. You're all looking a little worn. Everything all right?"

Harry shared a look with Ron, who shook his head imperceptibly. "As well as could be expected, Mr. Weasley."

The bad news could wait until after dinner.

At midnight, Hermione finally retired to Ginny's room. She keenly missed her younger friend, but her owl, George, had brought McGonagall's latest letter. She pulled the heavy duvet under her chin and unrolled the parchment.

_My dear Hermione,_

_Further to our last, men aren't, for the most part, worth the heartache they give you. Yes, I know the prevailing school of thought is 'my man or die,' but truly, they're an awful bother. I have been both wounded in love and happy in love. It is better, by far, to be happy, but finding that rare and elusive thing – a man who respects you – is exactly that, my young friend: both rare and elusive._

_Find a man who stands out from the crowd, who is unafraid to stand his ground, whether it be popular or not, and you will have found one of the rare ones. If he happens to respect you, then you are one of the lucky ones._

_Never mind me, I'm just an old witch who is missing Albus tonight. He was both rare and elusive … and I miss him dearly._

_No more of this sentimental tripe. I have news …_

She climbed out of Ginny's snug bed, pulled on her dressing gown, grimacing when her fingers snagged on the material. She'd have to buy some lotion soon, or her skin would resemble the bark of a tree.

Then she went to find Ron and Harry. There was still light coming from downstairs, and Hermione could hear Molly Weasley's distress and she and her husband came to terms with the very real possibility that one of their children had become the very thing they despised most.

She knocked quietly on Ron's door before slipping into his room. His eyes were red-rimmed after the emotional evening they'd had. "Mum still up?" he asked.

"I could hear she and your dad talking just now. They're terribly upset."

Before Ron could say something scathing, Harry interrupted. "Anyone would be. What've you got there?"

"Minerva's letter. There's some new insider information."

Harry propped himself up on an elbow, his Weird Sisters t-shirt snug across his chest as his newly developed muscles pulled at the jersey. "Anything immediate?"

"Our spy thinks we have to go further east in our search."

Ron looked at her. "You mean London? Or Kent?"

"No. I mean Eastern Europe."

Ron jerked upright. "What? Why?"

"Because that's where Voldemort went for all those years," Harry replied.

Hermione yawned, and they decided to talk further in the morning. Her last thoughts before falling asleep weren't about Eastern Europe at all, but about Snape, whom she was certain was the spy.

She thought about the dangers he faced. About what a great actor he was. And about duped and betrayed she had felt after that night the previous May … especially after having given him her trust.

The next month and a half was spent making preparations to travel through Europe during the summer holidays. They could easily pass as Muggles on post-graduate tour of the continent. They continued to visit every known place Voldemort had frequented in his youth, including Borgin &amp; Burkes. Remus Lupin had better success when he tried to sell Borgin one of Walburga Black's music boxes. The sum Borgin paid for it was astounding, but it helped finance their upcoming trip.

During the month which should have seen the three friends – now grown leaner, more resilient, and tougher – taking their NEWT exams at school, they found the final Horcrux. It was quite by accident.

One afternoon they were buying supplies in Knockturn Alley for their next campsite – Romany wizards had devised a portable campfire which Harry decided to buy. As he was haggling over the price with a careworn hag, Ron eavesdropped on a conversation two wizards were having about the former Albania. Something about it niggled at his memory. When he mentioned it over dinner, cooked over their new Romany campfire, Hermione recognized the connection at once.

Quickly sending a letter to McGonagall to confirm the information, Hermione's reply came less than an hour later, only it was two letters. One from McGonagall, the other from their spy.

_Miss Granger_, was written in copperplate Dicta-Quill. _You've extrapolated the information in an entirely plausible and potentially fruitful manner. Having recently ascertained that the snake is not in fact what we were expecting, I suspect yours is the more valuable clue. _

The men had been talking about the town was where Bertha Jorkins had disappeared the summer before their fourth year at school.

_I anticipate your venture will meet with success. Bear in mind that the subject in question could not have brought with him anything of value._

The note was unsigned and the handwriting entirely useless as a clue, but the style of the phrasing was enough to solidify her belief about Snape.

However, confirmation of their informant's identity – at least to her satisfaction – wasn't enough to distract Hermione from the import of the message. She stared at the parchment, brown eyes unfocused, for several long minutes before speaking. "I think we have to find out where Bertha Jorkins was during her trip to Albania."

The information was surprisingly easy to acquire. After it had become obvious that she was missing, Magical Law Enforcement had issued a Missing Magical Persons Announcement. Bureaucratically slow, but efficient as a grist mill, the previous summer, a package had been delivered from a small Albanian Inn. The package had contained all of Bertha Jorkins' personal effects.

The package had contained a waybill and it had been inventoried and stored in the massive warehouse beneath the Ministry of Magic, where evidence was collected and stored until the Wizengamot might have need of it.

However, the serendipity in this case was that the Auror who had taken possession of the package was none other than Nymphadora Tonks. Remus Lupin, who was dating her, much to the Metamorphmagus' happiness, asked, was answered, and encouraged Tonks to re-inventory the package.

There, nestled deep within the Ministry of Magic, protected by the very government he was attempting to overthrow rested Lord Voldemort's final Horcrux … embedded deep within Bertha Jorkins' favorite Remembrall.

It was the work of mere days before a distant family member could be found, and one who was sympathetic to their cause. Bound by an Unbreakable Vow, this cousin, a shy but kindly witch by the name of Persephone Sutherland retrieved her cousins remaining personal artifacts and turned the Remembrall over the Mad-Eye Moody.

She send a carefully-worded letter of thanks to Snape enclosed in her celebratory note to McGonagall. In both, there were enough clues to allow each correspondent to know that Hermione had accurately guessed his identity.

Thereafter, McGonagall simply enclosed his letters with her more personal tidings. Seeing his bold, flowing script gave Hermione filled her with conflicting emotions. She was thrilled she'd been correct, incredibly relieved and vindicated that he was truly on their side as a small part of her had hoped for so many months, and awed by the number of layers this war was being fought on. She still didn't understand all the pieces of the puzzle or why he had killed Dumbledore, but she knew there were answers to be had. McGonagall would never have accepted his help without knowing he was trustworthy – not after Dumbledore's death.

By the end of July, she had convinced Harry and Ron that their mole was Snape … and Harry had written a very long and scathing letter to McGonagall about keeping people in the dark. His reply was swift and shocking – literally. McGonagall, not being able to use a Howler, had hexed the parchment so that the moment he accepted the scroll from Hedwig he was knocked on his arse on the verge.

Ron laughed until he cried, and then wiped tears from his cheeks, leaving a trail of mud on his freckled skin. Hermione scolded them both and helped Harry to his feet.

McGonagall's letter was tart, to the point, and left no room for doubt. Snape was on their side. Dumbledore had trusted him to carry out his orders and she had seen enough proof to trust him as well. She told Harry to mind his own business, which she granted included Snape, but asked for his forbearance. Matters were so delicate that spreading the information was dangerous … for them all, let alone Snape.

INSERT LAKE DISTRICT IMAGE HERE

One evening, as they were camping in a small wood off Crummock Water in the Lake District, Hedwig refused to deliver a letter to Remus Lupin. Nothing he could do would coax her from her nest. Finally, she nipped Harry's hand, drawing blood.

"Ow! Damnit, Hedwig! What's gotten into you? You've been broody for weeks."

Harry returned to the small witch fire. "She must be sick or something," he said while Hermione cast a sealing spell on the cut. Camping rough as they had been, they were cautious about infections for small cuts and scratches.

"She's been eating though, hasn't she?" she asked and added another piece of deadfall to the fire.

Nearby, Ron suddenly crashed through the underbrush. "Bugger! Bloody bird!"

"Ron!"

He, too had returned with a bleeding finger. Once more, Hermione dutifully cleaned and sealed the wound. Then she went to investigate.

Hedwig eyed her suspiciously, and she gained nasty nip for her troubles, but Hermione was utterly surprised to find that in Hedwig's roosting spot, the crevice of a large oak they'd camped under for four days, a nest with a single egg, and Hedwig sitting snugly upon it.

Harry beamed at his owl, offering her a bit of his leftovers and crooning as if it was his chick in the egg.

Ten minutes later a note arrived for Harry from Remus Lupin and his owl was perfectly contented to return with a reply already written.

Remus' letter contained information that Draco Malfoy and his mother had found refuge under a Fidelius location, and the information he had provided – which he had been providing for months via Snape, was invaluable.

The three friends sat around their small fire, discussing parameters and plausibilities of how to lure Voldemort into a trap. They decided it was time to meet with the Order.

The three called it an early night. In some ways the last task – facing Voldemort directly would be easier than the months living in hiding and pursuing a secretive task. In others, it would be far, far worse.

When Hermione crawled into her sleeping bag after brushing her teeth, she stared at the roof of their tent and listened to Ron and Harry breathe. She could tell that neither was asleep.

Somehow the air was heavy with portent, and she felt compelled to say something into the quiet night.

"I'm glad you two are my friends."

In terms of a stunningly eloquent profundity, it was sorely lacking, however, the statement more than made up for itself by being entirely heartfelt and sincere.

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah. You two. I never would have found all the Horcruxes this soon without you."

"We'd never have survived first year," Ron joined in.

Hermione said, "Best friends?"

"Yeah," Harry and Ron answered in unison.

They all managed to clasp each others' hands for a brief squeeze, none of them wanting to say more, feeling only a little foolish for the reassurance.

Within moments of one another they fell asleep.

It was their last quiet evening.

.

.

.

With the coming of dawn, a frantic, hooting of two owls and a strange peep from Pigwidgeon woke the three friends.

The final battle had come to them.

The tent was fortunately Disillusioned, but it was only a matter of time before they were discovered. They had emergency escape Portkeys but the wards would need to be dropped first.

Clad in track pants and tee shirts – standard sleep wear for them – Harry, Hermione and Ron scrambled into shoes. Additionally, Hermione crammed her wild hair into one of her knitted caps, and she accepted one of her Protean Charmed galleons from their fifth year at school. They made excellent, illegal Portkeys.

Before they were discovered or had taken down their security spells on the tent, Remus Lupin's voice was clearly heard. "Well, well, well. It is such a _pleasure_ to see you again, Wormtail."

Ron's knuckles were white around his wand, and Harry's mouth was set in a grim line. Hermione whispered, "I don't think they really know we're here. But they're looking for us."

Bellatrix Lestrange shouted, "McGonagall, you old hag! Haven't you died yet?"

And then a scream rent the air, and Hermione jerked reflexively.

Then in a fierce, swift group hug the three friends were ready. Hermione flicked her wand and their tent disappeared, revealing their surroundings.

BATTLE SEQUENCE.

"Oh, for Christ's sake! You can duel over me AFTER the effing battle's over. I can assure you my heart's quite willing to be trifled with. Now pay attention!."

As she's dueling … 'Why didn't I ever realize you were funny?"

"It takes life experience to develop a sense of humor. You're not 30 yet."

"I feel like it."

Later,

Someone disarms her … then is going to kill her and Snape … she launches herself at them physically … they're not prepared at all.


	3. Resolution

Resolution

By Bambu

The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense. The long-awaited visit by Hermione Granger hadn't quite been the welcome any had expected. It was summer in England, and three women – each representing a different generation - sipped lemonade and shared an awkward conversation.

It had been a number of years since Hermione had visited the Burrow. She had lived a hard-scrabble, _sub rosa_ existence while fighting at her best friends' sides, and she was the last of the survivors to return home.

When Elizabeth, the youngest of the three women, had dressed that morning, in eager anticipation of her heroine's visit, she had carefully brushed her thick, ebony hair until it gleamed in the sunlight, and had made sure the crease in her everyday robes was sharp. She'd given herself a critical once-over in the mirror she'd charmed to silence, after the thousandth time it had commented on her height. She was taller than other girls her age, and she hated being singled out like that. It had been difficult enough to attend Hogwarts without having parents, but she hadn't been the only orphan in her year. She had just been the only one who didn't know who her parents were.

She hoped Miss Granger would be as nice as Molly and Arthur had always told her. Elizabeth hated when adults looked down their noses at her because of her unknown parentage.

Now, however, Elizabeth stared at her one-time idol, and noted, with all the maturity of a girl turned fourteen about to enter her fourth year at Hogwarts, that the woman seated across the time-worn table wasn't the vivid character Elizabeth had imagined. Instead, she was a slender woman, with lines of exhaustion and pain etched around her mid-brown eyes. She had a particularly lush mouth, and her skin had once been quite tanned, but the tan had faded as a result of her months in hospital. Elizabeth was fascinated by the thick braid which hung past the woman's shoulders, but was a bit disappointed by this warrior she'd only met a handful of times.

"More lemonade, dear?" Molly asked her guest.

Elizabeth revised her opinion of Hermione's looks when the witch smiled at her foster mother. The smile made the woman suddenly, startlingly lovely.

"I can't tell you the numbers of times I would have loved a glass of your lemonade. India was very hot. We discovered a trick though." Her eyes dimmed and the smile seemed to fall from her face. "It was Ron's idea, actually."

Molly's voice wobbled a bit. "It's all right, Hermione. Anything you tell me will be more than we know. If it's a happy memory, don't you think that's a gift to share?"

Hermione's eyes returned to her hostess, and Elizabeth was certain they glimmered with unshed tears. "It's still hard sometimes. They've been … er … were such a part of my life …." She cleared her throat and drank the remains of her lemonade. "What I was going to tell you, Elizabeth –"

"Bess," Elizabeth corrected. "I prefer to be called Bess."

"Oh. All right." Then, proving herself to be still insatiably curious, Hermione asked, "Don't you like your name?"

Flipping her black hair over her shoulder in an imperious toss of the head, Elizabeth said with disdain, "It's the name imy mother/i gave me."

Hermione looked taken aback.

Molly interrupted. "I think you're the only teenager I ever knew, Hermione, who didn't find a way to shorten your name. We've been calling Elizabeth Bess since her second year at school."

"I see. Well, I always loved that my mother took my name from Shakespeare, but it doesn't lend itself easily to nicknames." She looked beyond Molly, and her eyes had a distant, haunted look for a moment. Then she seemed to gather herself. "That's neither here nor there. Sorry. Well, then, Bess, I was going to say that Ron discovered a refreshing way to eat lemons when we had no water. It was quite by accident, actually. We were in …" she broke off her narrative again, before laughing self-deprecatingly. "Isn't it funny? For years, I haven't been able to tell anyone about where we'd been or what we were doing. It's just difficult to realize I can say these things without life-threatening repercussions. Please forgive me … I seem to have grown out of the habit."

Molly had risen from her chair at the head of the table, and swiftly traversed the ancient stone floor of her domain. She pulled Hermione out of her chair and into a fierce, maternal hug. Hermione clung to her like cling film to a bowl of trifle. "Oh, my dear … my dear. I can't imagine how difficult it must've been for you. All these years without proper care. You need some coddling."

Surreptitiously, Hermione wiped the tears from her cheeks, and noticed Elizabeth rolling her eyes. The young woman was an unknown quantity and unknowingly held the keys to the rest of Hermione's life. The last time Hermione had seen Elizabeth, the girl had been eight, and she had thought they'd found the final Horcrux, and then she would be able to return to England and pick up the pieces of a life lived in shadow and secrets.

It hadn't worked out that way.

Little had they known then that Voldemort had been mad enough to continue fashioning Horcruxes as he crossed the continent. He'd had so little soul by that time, his intellect had been affected, and his poorly constructed creations had been easy to track, but there had been a number of them. They were, without exception, extremely difficult, even lethal, to disable. Harry had called them magical landmines. You were never quite certain when you'd stumble over one, and were extremely lucky to come away from an encounter with all your limbs intact.

None had expected the wizarding war to range over four continents. But the search for Horcruxes had taken the dedicated trio to Europe and the Middle East. It had been in Northern Africa where the combatants had faced off for the last time. In the slightly impoverished part of Casablanca which pre-dated Morocco's French Protectorate, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger, backed by a dozen members of the Order of the Phoenix and three Sphinxes met Lord Voldemort and the remains of his Dark Order in the narrow streets of wizarding section of Old Medina. Few had walked away with their lives. None had escaped unscathed.

With the sun shining warmly in the late August afternoon in rural England, Hermione disentangled herself from Molly's embrace, and picked up her cane. It had clattered to the floor when Molly had hugged her. She sat awkwardly, folding her right leg with the assistance of her hands. When she looked up, she caught a flash of distaste cross Elizabeth's face. Her heart ached, but she'd lived through worse things than scorn. "As I was saying. We were tramping through Pune – that's in India – and were in the Muggle section of the city." She looked straight at Elizabeth. "We lived as Muggles for long stretches of time because the Death Eaters hated to search in the Muggle world, and we could disappear for a time. It gave us the chance to piece the clues we found together to lead us to the next Horcrux. Do you like Muggles, Eliza … Bess?"

The young girl blinked. She hadn't expected a direct question. "Er, I don't really know any, Miss Granger."

"I'd like it if you would call me Hermione."

The girl flushed. "I would be honored."

"Thank you. Someday, I hope you have the opportunity to get to know some Muggles. They're inventive, and have many things to offer the world." She reached for her empty glass, without realizing it was empty. Instantly, Molly waved her wand and the large pitcher or lemonade on the side table floated through the air and refilled Hermione's glass. "Thanks, Molly." She drank deeply. "Well, Ron was always carrying sweets of some sort, and he'd become very fond of peppermint sticks. They taste like Peppermint Toads, but they're a hard candy shaped like a wand. They have small air bubbles on the inside which run the length of the candy," she explained for Elizabeth's sake. "And we'd passed an orchard the day before, where we had picked a few lemons. They were good for many things, including disinfecting our hands before we ate, and flavoring our food, and they were a vital source of vitamin C."

At the blank looks on her audience's faces Hermione laughed. It was a lilting, musical sound, and wrung a happy smile from the Weasley matriarch and an unwilling one from the youngest witch. "Sorry. It's a nutrient which is important to good health, and none of us could afford to be ill. In any event, Ron had stuck a lemon in the pocket where he carried his peppermints. We ran afoul of a nundu that afternoon –"

"A nundu?" Molly practically shrieked.

"Really?" Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair. Now ithis/i was what she'd expected of Hermione Granger. This fit perfectly with her fantasies.

"Well, yes. But the story's not that exciting. We were only a small part of the subduing force. It was a lot of fun working with the local shaman. He'd put a call out to the neighboring villages, because a nundu is a menace to any village within its home range."

Molly Weasley smiled as Hermione seemed to revert to the know-it-all of her early years. Elizabeth seemed to hang on every word out of Hermione's mouth.

"Ron drew the most attention of the three of us. No one had seen hair like his before. Harry teased him unmercifully, and Ron would blush as red as his hair." Hermione's eyes shone. It looked as if they sparkled with mirth, but to a perceptive observer, it was obvious that the moisture was tears held in check by a strong-willed woman. "In any event, when we finished off the creature, we continued on our way."

"What?" Elizabeth interjected. "That's it? You're not going to tell us what happened with the nundu?"

Hermione looked taken aback. "I hadn't planned to. It isn't germane to the lemon story."

Sharply disappointed, Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. "All right. Let's hear about the lemon then."

"Bess!" Molly scolded.

"Sorry," Bess said, grudgingly.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "The point was that the next day, when Ron reached for his peppermint stick, it came out of his pocket embedded deep within the lemon." She looked at her audience as if waiting for them to connect the dots. Neither of them did, and Hermione felt a sharp jolt of disappointment. Harry would have understood and so would Ron. Before the Last Stand, the three friends had been so close they'd often finished or started the others' thoughts. It had been their version of twin-speak. Hermione missed that aspect of her friendship as much as she missed Harry and Ron. "He removed the peppermint from the lemon and popped it in his mouth, complaining that it was ruined, but beggars couldn't be choosers." There was a soft, reminiscent expression on her face.

When Molly sucked in her breath sharply, Elizabeth said, "Miss Granger, that's just rude."

"What?" Hermione looked at the two women, the young woman was a mystery to her, and the other she realized she no longer knew very well at all. It took a minute for the iLumos/i to flare in her brain, but then she flushed. "Oh! Molly, I didn't mean …" but then her voice hardened and she straightened in the chair. For the first time, she looked like the warrior she had been for most of her life. "Look, we didn't have much money on the road. Any of us. It didn't matter that mum and dad left me everything in their will. I couldn't access it in India. It didn't matter that Harry had the rest of the Black fortune on top of his parents' legacy. There wasn't a Gringotts we could enter. We survived on our wits, Molly. We survived … and we won. I won't pretend the cost hasn't been dear. It's taken almost everything of value I've ever had or loved. But we made the world a better place. Our sacrifices made it possible for you, Elizabeth, to go to school in safety, to have a future without worrying whether you'd wake in your bed with a Death Eater standing over you casting an Unforgivable."

"Hermione Granger!" Molly was outraged.

"I won't say I'm sorry, Molly. I can't devalue my losses or their sacrifices. Everything we did, even when we worked as ditch diggers in Mumbai, kept us alive. It toughened us. It's part of why we won the war." Her proud chin tilted as if she were expecting to be assaulted. No one noticed that she had palmed her wand. It was an automatic, defensive reaction, and one she hadn't broken in the ten months since the Last Stand and the deaths of her closest friends and colleagues.

Across the table, Elizabeth was coming to terms with the destruction of her closely cherished dreams. Hermione Granger was proud of digging ditches, for Merlin's sake! The young witch shuddered and thought role-models should remain on posters and in books. In person, they were extremely disappointing. She pretended that she had never cherished other hopes for Hermione Granger.

"To finish this endless story, Ron discovered that lemons were delicious if we sucked the juice through the peppermint stick. We've eaten them that way ever since."

An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen as each woman adjusted to the shifting dynamics.

Molly cleared her throat. "What do you plan to do now?"

Hermione's eyes lingered over Elizabeth's face for a moment, looking at the well-formed mouth and the pert nose. "My plans are somewhat up in the air at the moment. I thought I might see Remus."

Remus Lupin had survived, but he'd gone into seclusion. Elizabeth had met him once. He hadn't been her idea of a hero. There had been an insubstantial feeling about the werewolf which had made Elizabeth uncomfortable. His manners had been impeccable and he'd been very gentle.

"Have you talked to him? I do wish he'd come to dinner." Molly fretted.

"I know you do, Molly. I haven't talked to him yet, but we've written to each other a few times. He's invited me to come and stay for a bit, depending on how things go."

Molly summoned a plate of biscuits and offered them to her guest. Once she would have told Hermione to get them for her, and the gesture served to illustrate the changes time and distance had wrought in their relationship. "That's understandable. Once I'd thought to welcome you as my daughter."

"I once thought so as well. But … well … things change."

"That they do." Molly bit into a biscuit.

Elizabeth tried to understand what they were talking about. It seemed to be a conversation the two women had held before. She hated being left out. Before she could demand some answers, after all she was old enough now to understand things, Hermione spoke directly to her.

"I understand you've been sorted into Ravenclaw?"

"Yes. I'm a fourth year."

"Is Professor Flitwick still Head of House? I liked him very much."

"He's wonderful. And he tells me that I have a natural affinity for Charms."

A wistful smile crossed Hermione's face. "I loved Charms. It was my favorite subject along with Arithmancy."

"Oh, I hate Arithmancy," the young witch declared.

"Everyone's different. What other classes do you like?"

"Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Of course, I don't have much choice about DADA. Everyone tells me I'm a natural."

Hermione leaned forward in her chair, her eyes searching Elizabeth's face, and she seemed to draw a ragged breath. "Oh?"

With all the haughtier of a young noblewoman, Elizabeth said, "It's generally believed that I'm Harry Potter's natural daughter, Miss Granger."

"I see." Hermione said, faintly.

The entire atmosphere in the kitchen changed, and it seemed as if a cloud had blocked the sun. Suddenly the shadows seemed to creep in through the window panes, and Hermione's eyes were haunted and her shoulders seemed to slump.

"Bess Weasley, I've told you a dozen times that was nothing but rumor."

Molly's words had the ease of repeating a familiar refrain, and Hermione wondered if it was possible to die of a broken heart a third time.

"Yes, Molly-mum, but it's easier to let them think I'm somebody's daughter rather than an unwanted cast-off you took in out of the goodness of your heart."

The dark-haired woman seated across from Elizabeth stiffened in her chair, and her voice was strained and thin. "I hadn't realized your life was so very difficult."

"Not difficult exactly. Molly-mum and Papa Arthur have been very good to me, and I couldn't love real parents more." Elizabeth fiddled with the edge of her jumper, her long fingers plucking the pilled wool with delicacy. Had she been looking at the two women seated with her, she would have known the truth. As it was, she missed the non-verbal discussion taking place above her bent head. "Well, some things are unforgivable, don't you think, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's face paled and she rose from the Weasley's kitchen chair. Her voice was oddly formal when next she spoke. "You're quite right, Elizabeth … pardon me … Bess." Her haunted brown eyes sought out Molly Weasley's understanding face. She felt as if she'd been stabbed, and it was a pain she recognized intimately. "Please excuse me. I have another stop to make today, and I must take my leave of you."

Elizabeth rose from her chair. "Of course. It was an honor to meet you, Miss Granger. I do hope you won't be a stranger in the future."

Hermione flinched as if she'd been struck, but she managed a credible, if distracted farewell. She shook Elizabeth's hand and clung to Molly Weasley as if she were saying goodbye for the last time.

"Oh, child," Molly whispered, but Hermione drew herself straight and proud.

She looked at the young woman once more. "I'm certain you're a credit to Ravenclaw, Elizabeth, and I wish you nothing but success and happiness."

Then, the heroine of the Last Stand leaned on her cane and limped out into the summer sunshine. She didn't follow good manners and walk to the end of the lane before Apparating – perhaps it was because her leg was bothering her – but the distinctive icrack/i of Disapparation echoed in the kitchen almost as soon as she'd passed through the back door of the Burrow.

Elizabeth Weasley looked at the door, her epiphany spread across her face.

She wasn't Harry Potter's daughter at all.

She was Hermione Granger's.

~o0o~

II

Four years later.

Hermione at Remus' and then into the Muggle world.

Hermione's disappeared from sight … with rare exceptions. She studied with X Potions master to brew Wolfsbane on a monthly basis, and she provides it for Remus.

They've never had sex … neither will bring it into their friendship … both understand what it would do to lose the only other person who knows what they've each suffered and lost. But each has had one-night stands.

Elizabeth comes to call during Spring Break.

She confronts Hermione.

"I thought you were brave?"

"I was … once."

"You coward. Aren't I worth fighting for?"

"Elizabeth… Bess. I had no idea you knew the truth. You told me it was unforgiveable … that you preferred Molly and Arthur."

"I lied."

"What? Oh, my god. Why?"

"To hurt you as much as you hurt me."

Hermione shuddered. "You have no idea, Elizabeth."

Bitterly her daughter faced her down. "Don't I? You left me when I was six weeks old. Abandoned me to Molly's care. Didn't you care what became of me?"

"Of course I cared. I've always cared. I couldn't take you with me. It wasn't safe."

"So why did you go? You didn't have to fight."

Hermione drew herself up to her full height. "It was a war, Elizabeth. I didn't have a choice. Everything in my life … except you … has been taken from me. My parents, my familiars, my friends, my loved ones. If you were left behind, it was for your safety. Do you think Voldemort," she laughed mirthlessly at her child's flinch, "would have left me – us – alone if I'd stayed?"

She paced. "By then, he would have done everything in his power to have gotten to me … to Harry through me. This was the only thing I could think of to keep you safe. If no one knew they couldn't use you against us. They couldn't hurt you."

Elizabeth laughed bitterly. "I was hurt plenty, imother/i. My first year at Hogwarts was nightmarish. I was pitied and taunted and teased. The unloved, unlovely witch who was taken in by the Weasleys. It didn't change until the headmistress hinted to the prefects that my parents were so well-known I would be in danger if it was known. After that, the rumors about Harry Potter started, and then I had so many 'friends' I couldn't move for being mobbed. I understood, you see. It made sense for Harry Potter to leave me behind. He couldn't acknowledge me for fear of my life. Everyone understood, and in second year, I began to find real friends. Those who didn't care about my parentage."

"But if you understood the reasons Harry would leave you, why can't you see that it wasn't any different for me?"

"There wasn't a prophesy about you!"

Hermione felt as if she'd been struck. Silence reigned in the room for a long time.

A dry, gentle voice interrupted. Remus Lupin stood in the doorway. His lean body was more fit than the last time he'd encountered Elizabeth, but there was more gray in his hair.

"You're quite right. There wasn't a prophesy about Hermione. But heroes, Elizabeth, don't accomplish great feats by themselves. They have help. Your mother was indispensable to Harry. He would never have survived without her."

"That's what they say," Elizabeth scoffed.

"That's that truth, young one."

Hermione rose from the sofa and started into the other room, her face stricken.

"Coward!" Elizabeth flung at her.

Remus sucked in his breath and Hermione stopped in her tracks. Her back was rigid in shock. She whirled and looked at her child as if she was indeed a stranger. "Don't ever call me a coward, Elizabeth. You have no idea what bravery really is." She spoke over the spluttering young woman. "It's about sacrifice. It's about facing Death Eaters when you're so afraid you might wet yourself … but you face them anyway because your best friend has no choice! It's about waking up every day when those you love are slaughtered in front of your very eyes. It's about not running to hide at the Burrow and wrap yourself around your small child and pray for her father's safety. It's about walking away from that child because they think your decisions were unforgiveable. It's about walking away so that child might have a better life."

Elizabeth had always had a temper, but she'd thought it was under control. However, she never knew how her wand found its way into her hand, and she'd never intended to use it, but her mother's bitter words had stung.

With speed Elizabeth had never before seen, Hermione Granger deflected the hex her daughter cast, and then she'd disarmed her with a non-verbal spell. While the young witch stood staring at her mother, Hermione turned her back and walked out of the room.

"Oh, child," Remus said, sighing heavily. He maneuvered Elizabeth to the sofa, and then pressed on her shoulders until she sat. "Why ever would you do that?"

"I … don't … I didn't … she was so fast!" Elizabeth had been stunned by her mother's capabilities.

Remus actually chuckled. "She's actually a little rusty these days. You should have seen her in Africa. The three of them were breathtaking, and terribly, terribly lethal."

"I've hated her," she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow. "It think that's painfully obvious."

"I wanted her to come for me … all those years. I knew I wasn't Harry Potter's child. I knew it, but I'd hoped that I might be hers. I remember every time she visited the Burrow. It was always late at night, and she'd sneak into my bedroom to look at me. She never touched me, she just looked. The first time it almost scared me to death. But I remember the last time clearly. She was smiling. I'd never seen her smile before." Sad brown eyes looked at Remus. "She's beautiful when she smiles."

"Yes, she is."

Elizabeth bit her lower lip, and it was sharply reminiscent of the young witch Hermione had been. She took a deep breath. "Are you my father?"

"What? No!" He sat bolt upright. "Not that you wouldn't be a wonderful daughter to have, but I'm afraid I'm not he."

"Who is he then? Do you think he'd want me?"

A shrill voice came from the doorway. "You don't think I want you?"

"Wouldn't you have come back if you did?"

Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Do you think you can talk to me without hexing me?"

Elizabeth blushed.

A small smile twitched at Hermione's lips. "Elizabeth, if I'd thought you were receptive, I'd have been at Molly's door every day. I didn't want to cause you any more pain."

Remus ran his hand through his shaggy hair. "I'm going to let you two talk." He rose and headed toward the small kitchen.

"Are you two lovers, then?" Elizabeth asked her mother.

"You are certainly impertinent," Hermione said. "Not that it's your business, but no, Remus and I are not lovers. He's my very dear friend, but it didn't sound as if that's really your question."

"Will you tell me about my father?"

Hermione's hand shook as she accepted the tray of tea and biscuits which Remus floated in their direction. "Your father. I'd rather hoped to develop a friendship with you before we discussed him. But you have the right to know."

Elizabeth leaned forward.

"I will tell you some of the story, but not all. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Yes." The young witch's eyes shone with excitement. "Where is he now? Why aren't you with him? Did you marry him in secret?" Her mouth dropped in an 'O' of dismay. "Oh, is he dead?"

"Please, one question at a time. I can see why my teachers always teased me about my curiosity. It's nice to see that it's an inherited trait."

Elizabeth blushed again. "Sorry."

"Please don't be sorry. It's rather charming, and it makes me happy to know that you're a little like me."

"It does?"

"It does." They looked at each other, assessing their altering relationship.

Elizabeth bit her lip. "After you left. That last time. I knew you were my mother."

Hermione's mouth pinched until there was a thin, bloodless line rimming them.

"I read everything I could about you, and for a time I thought my father might be Viktor Krum."

"Viktor?" Hermione asked, faintly. "Really? I … never … er … that is to say …"

"I know. He told me nothing had ever happened between you, but that he hoped you were recovering from your wounds."

"He said? You spoke with him about me? About this?"

"Well yes. I found him during Christmas break. His team was playing the Wimbourne Wasps here, and I wangled tickets. You should have seen how fast they let me through to meet him when I said that I was your daughter."

"What? You didn't!"

"I did." Elizabeth's face was alight with mischief, but then her expression darkened. "You didn't want anyone to know? Are you ashamed of me?"

"No! Of course not. How could I be ashamed of a daughter with eight NEWTS."

Elizabeth's head swung in an arc, astonishment writ upon her face. "How did you? Molly told you?"

Hermione laughed a little. "No. I had a more direct source of information. Minerva McGonagall sent me an owl. She was very proud of your achievement. I've always wished I'd had the opportunity to sit my NEWTS," she said a bit wistfully.

"That doesn't really answer my question, Miss … er … Hermione."

"You're quite right. I'm not ashamed of you at all, nor that you're my daughter. I haven't told many people, because I wanted that to be your decision. I'm very pleased you're not ashamed of me."

It was Elizabeth's turn to goggle at her mother. "Ashamed? How could I be ashamed of you! You're famous! A heroine."

"I don't like the fame, Elizabeth."

"I know. Why not? Isn't it brilliant to get invitations to the Minister's home, or to get the best table at Verducci's?"

"Oh, Elizabeth. It's not like that at all. The Minister isn't very nice – and please trust me on this, I know him – and I don't like being stared at. It's intrusive and journalists invent lies when the truth doesn't suit them."

Then Hermione said, "I cannot tell you whether your father is alive or not. I wish I could, but I haven't seen him in several years."

"I'm sorry. I wish I had more information, believe me. Not knowing what's happened to him is much worse than leaving it to my imagination." Her eyes flashed. "I have a very vivid imagination."

"I do, too."

"I can tell," Hermione said dryly, and then she sobered. "Your father's identity is something I've kept secret since your birth. There are only three people now living who know. Remus is one."

"Who's the third?"

"Your father, of course. Anyone else who knew – Harry and Ron and my parents – are all dead. All killed by Voldemort. For all I know, Voldemort killed your father as well." Hermione broke a biscuit into bits and worried the pieces into crumbs.

"Did you love him?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

Hermione's head jerked up. "Yes! Very much. We were an odd pair … not one you would expect. Most everyone, including Ron, thought that I would end up a Weasley. But it didn't turn out that way."

"Where did you meet? How long were you together?"

"Elizabeth … Bess, let me organize my thoughts. I've never really told anyone these things. Everyone who knows was there, and it's a secret I've had to protect for a long time."

Elizabeth practically bounced with eagerness. Her earlier antipathy seemingly eradicated. Hermione remembered the vacillation of emotions when she was seventeen and smiled.

"I knew him for a long time before we became … before we had a relationship. At first, he didn't like me, and, though I trusted him, I didn't particularly like him either. I respected him, but he wasn't very nice to most people. Many people hated him."

"Do I know his name?"

"Yes. Are you sure you want to know this."

"Unless it's He-Who-Was-Defeated, I'm sure."

"You can say the name, you know. And, no, Voldemort wasn't your father. What a dreadful idea!" She shuddered delicately, and Elizabeth laughed at the absurd notion.

For a moment the two drank their tea. Hermione could hear Remus moving about in the kitchen, and his presence gave her strength.

"What was he like?" her daughter demanded.

Hermione smiled. "He was impatient, demanding, and brilliant. He was dedicated and often self-serving. He had one of the most difficult tasks in the war, and one of the most dangerous."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Was he a spy?"

Hermione nodded. "He was."

That narrowed the field of possibilities considerably. There had been a number of well-known spies for both sides during the war.

"When did he disappear? 

"He left England at the end of my last year at Hogwarts, but I encountered him in Brussels that first summer when we were on the run and hunting Horcruxes. I had expected him to kill me. Instead, he gave me a clue to find the Hufflepuff cup. We met fairly often after that."

"It wasn't Draco Malfoy?"

"No! He always hated me." Hermione laughed. "Besides, your hair wouldn't be so dark if it had been Malfoy."

"He really was handsome. And he died so honorably."

Hermione shuddered, remembering Draco's sacrifice. The day Draco died had been the last time she'd seen Elizabeth's father. "He did indeed. You were fairly young when that happened. It was at that battle in Kiev when I last saw your father as well."

"No! But that's years ago."

Hermione's eyes were shadowed as the long-held sorrow showed on her face. "I know, and there were circumstances which make it probable that he died the same day as Malfoy. But he was certainly alive when we faced off in the park."

"You faced off? You dueled each other?"

"Yes. What else could we do? It was a skirmish, and he had to maintain his cover. Of course, we were lucky. It was possible to use non-verbal hexes without appearing to go lightly on one another. But it was the last time I saw him."

"Great Merlin! How awful!"

"I quite agree." Hermione looked down at her hands. It had been seven years, and she'd quite given up on his being alive. Remus was the only family left, aside from this young girl. She hadn't considered the Weasleys because she wouldn't intrude on Elizabeth's happy life. "Do you think you might want to see me sometime? To see if we can be friends?"

Elizabeth's eyes shone through her own tears. "I think I'd like that. Do you think I'll ever be as fast with a wand as you?"

"I hope you'll never have the need, Elizabeth. Being fast was the only way for us to stay alive."

"Oh! I didn't think about it that way."

"I understand." Her voice gentled. "It isn't a parlor trick, or something to boast about in dueling club. It was a terrible thing to learn, but it's a price of the war." Another silence seemed to descend on the pleasant room. "Would you like some more tea?"

"Yes, please." Elizabeth assimilated everything Hermione … her mother … had told her, and she formed some conclusions. She didn't particularly like the conclusion she'd reached, but she wanted to know the truth. "My father was Severus Snape, wasn't he?"

Hermione's head snapped up, and she bit her lip, exactly the same way her child had. She squared her shoulders. "Yes, he is."

~o0o~


	4. The Curtain Falls

**The Curtain Falls**

By Bambu

**Summary**: Ten years after he fled Hogwarts, Hermione Granger finally tracks down Severus Snape.

**Disclaimer and Author's Notes**: The wondrous world of J.K. Rowling's imagining does not belong to me, nor do I financially profit from it. The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

This teaser was written in 2008 as something of a whimsical possibility for an alternate book seven. As always, my thanks go to SnarkyWench for her kind assistance and keen set of eyes.

~o0o~

He swept into the room like the drama queen she had always thought him. But in these surroundings, his entrance wasn't out of place. How clever of him to have hidden in such a way, she thought.

He removed his satin-lined cloak with a flourish.

If she hadn't cast the DNA Spell on his dressing room's hairbrush, she would never have known it was actually he.

The dark hair was the same and the hooked nose was the same. The voice, which dripped disdain when his snapping black eyes rested on her presence, had the same enviable flexibility, and his words illustrated that his mind was as incisive as ever. "Miss Granger, I never expected to find _you_ haunting the manager's office of a Kansas City operatic production."

"Yes. Well, I'll just be going," the manager stuttered, indicating he was a seasoned professional by slipping quietly out the door before the temperamental diva launched his fit.

The manager's departure left former professor and disliked student to speak for the first time in a decade.

Snape, or Sebastian Simon as the theatre marquee professed, looked down his nose at her and curled his lip. "Have you grown so over-confident you think _you_ won't need reinforcements?"

A man's voice shouted through the door, "Seb! Hey, Seb, are you going to be long? We have to strike the sets, and you need to get your stuff off the stage." The soft drawl continued, but innuendo twined through his words. "If you don't get out here, the Prop Mistress will be more than happy to hold your jewels for you."

Hermione stifled a laugh at the crudity of the comment, thoroughly enjoying the flush which stained Snape's cheeks, even visible under the theatrical make-up he wore, but she remained seated.

The jokester retreated, laughing uproariously.

"Do you actually let them call you 'Seb'?" Hermione mocked.

"They're Americans. Everything has a nickname." He practically shuddered.

Hermione wondered briefly what other embarrassments he had suffered as an exile besides the obvious indignity of becoming an itinerant singer of some note in the United States' Midwest. Then she fingered her wands; there was no telling when the pleasantries would cease and she would be forced to use more drastic measures.

She had tracked him for months.

Initially skeptical - he was tanned and fitter than she remembered – she had followed his peripatetic 'tour' in order to acquire tangible confirmation of his identity.

He had been extremely careful, never leaving a single hair or nail paring for her to find. Every hotel or motel room he inhabited had been warded beyond her capabilities.

As a level six curse-breaker for the new Department of Mysteries, it was a feat she found professionally irritating, even as she acknowledged his brilliance.

Today, however, Hermione's hypothesis had borne fruit. She had watched Simon berate the waitress in the hotel's coffee shop for spilling his coffee into his breakfast. From the moment he had called the blonde a _dunderhead,_ Hermione had been certain of his identity.

Shortly thereafter, Hermione had risked casting a spell on the tire of his car when he'd driven away from the hotel.

He had been late to the theatre, and rushed getting ready for curtain call. For the first time in the six months she had been tracking him, he hadn't _Scourgified _his hairbrush before taking the stage.

It had taken three glamour-removing Charms before she could cast the DNA Spell on the baby-fine strands of black hair left behind. It was no wonder he had disappeared so effectively before the end of the war. In fact, no one had seen him or Draco Malfoy after the night they fled Hogwarts until she had stumbled across Sebastian Simon's path.

Interrupting her reverie, Snape, for indeed this was Severus Snape, took a single intimidating step in her direction. "Enough of the pleasantries, Granger. How did you find me? I won't ask what you want because it's obvious. You will either kill me or arrest me. I can assure you that you won't be successful in either endeavor."

She held up her hands at that, bent at the wrists so he could see the dual wands sticking from the sleeves of her dress. They were held neatly in place with quick-draw arm sheaths. By revealing her armament – each knew full well there was more - Hermione showed her willingness to 'treat' with the enemy.

"I'm only here for one reason, Snape. Well, two, actually. Where's Malfoy? He's next on my list."

Snape seemed to swell with rage, and, in an instant, his wand was pointed between her eyes.

Ah! This man she recognized. His lips had thinned to a gash in his face.

"Don't be stupid, Snape, or may I call you _Seb_?" Silently, Hermione cast another Impervius Charm upon herself. He had always been volatile, and she was, admittedly, provoking him. With her next words, her tone was colored for the first time by the bitter betrayal of his departure. "I promise not to call you _coward."_

A hex trail of red shot from his wand only to flare violently at the edge of her shielding spells and then instantly dissipating into sparks.

"I'M NOT A COWARD!"

Hermione flipped her wand into her hand and cast a non-verbal spell. He parried easily.

"If you think _Incarcerous_ sufficient then you've _risen_ to the heights I foresaw for the silly little girl you were." His sneer was blatant.

"I'm no longer a little girl, _Seb_." She grinned like a predator when he couldn't seem to Apparate from the room, and effortlessly blocked his next wordless hex. "I'm all grown up, now."

Giving verisimilitude to her statement, Hermione rose from her chair and his eyes widened before he narrowed them. She was dressed in black, and her hair was held captive in an intricate coiffure of braids, woven with a charmed rope of black silk. It should have been ridiculous, but instead was extremely elegant. Her dress was high-necked, long-sleeved, and form-fitting to her hips, at which point it flared enough for comfort and into a straight skirt, slit at both sides, giving her some freedom of movement.

In rapid succession, five more hex ricochets filled the room with smoky magical residue, and Hermione waved her dominant hand to clear the air while holding her secondary wand on Snape. "Oh, please. We're both adults. You know I'm not here to kill you."

He ignored her and pointed his wand at the door.

She knew he would be through her containment spells in fairly quick order, so she would have to make it fast.

"I'm here to deliver a letter from the new Minister of Magic."

His hand arrested mid-motion and his head swung in her direction. His eyes met hers for the third time. "Who?" was all he asked.

It was her turn to sneer. "If you have to ask, then your intelligence has been vastly overrated, _Professor_."

"Potter," he growled.

"Five points to Slytherin," she replied. When he doubled his efforts to escape, her temper, mercurial at best, exploded. "Give off, Snape!"

Decisively, Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, executed a complicated double enchantment, both wands pointing, jabbing, and flicking.

Before he could take a second breath, Severus Snape was levitated into the air and lying flat on his back, both arms firmly affixed to his sides. He glared at her, and his expression was one of sheer fury.

She laughed harshly.

His might not have been a face she had seen recently, but the expression she remembered distinctly. She had seen it her third year at school. He looked as deranged now as he had then, when she had helped Sirius Black escape.

"Living in exile has obviously dimmed your intelligence. If I had wanted to kill you, you would have been dead four months ago when I decided Sebastian Simon was really you." Of course, his expression couldn't change, but she saw comprehension dawn in his eyes. "Yes, I've been tracking you for some time. I quite liked _Carmen_, but I hated _Figaro_. You really have a more dominant presence than that idiot director allowed. I considered taking the Props Mistress position this time round, but decided against it. She really does have a thing for you, doesn't she?"

Hermione's smile was almost malicious, but there was something else in it she couldn't mask. Interest. She found him intriguing, but didn't want to admit it.

She had only come to deliver his pardon from the Ministry, but she knew that in all likelihood this would be the last time she would ever see Snape and she wanted to make it count.

It had never been anything as straightforward as a schoolgirl crush. Yet, she had wanted his approval for years, especially once she learned he was Dumbledore's spy and had saved Harry's life, and hers, on more than one occasion.

Hermione had been devastated by his betrayal, and her innocent part in helping him succeed. Having seen him leave his office that night at Hogwarts, she had known something was wrong, but had trusted him to save Harry. The results had been something no one, except perhaps Narcissa Malfoy, had expected.

Years had passed, and Voldemort had been dead before Hermione realized Snape had saved Harry the night of Dumbledore's death. In the wee small hours before dawn, one morning, while crying in her cups over the friends who paid for her freedom with their lives, Hermione had been sobered by an epiphany. Snape hadn't killed Harry or brought him to the Dark Lord when given the perfect opportunity.

She ignored the realization for weeks, assuming she had been too drunk to think rationally. However, the subversive thought persisted. Finally, the truth had squirmed its way through her defenses. Leaving Harry alive didn't made sense if Snape had been truly loyal to Voldemort. Added to that fact were Snape's and Draco's disappearances and Hermione had been given a lot to consider.

It had taken another year before Hermione convinced Harry to talk about Snape rationally. Ron refused to have the conversation at all.

Then, once Harry had been in office, he discovered additional evidence proving Snape's relative innocence. The former Minister for Magic had known of Dumbledore's plan, of the Unbreakable Vow Snape had taken. Initially, Rufus Scrimgeour had granted Snape clemency for following the directives of his superior, but after Albus' death, the Minister had found it expedient to deny Snape, and Draco, by extension, the leniency he had promised. Scrimgeour had found it much easier to rally the wizarding world by splashing the faces of two well-known Death Eaters across the front pages of every wizarding publication.

The Minister died at the end of the war, and a weary but exultant population had voted the twenty-five year old Chosen One into office. Many expected him to be a titular figurehead, but Harry Potter had been more than irritated at the high-handedness demonstrated by the Ministry since he was a boy.

His tenure in office had begun with a fresh broom. The resulting clean sweep was thorough, starting with the dismissal and incarceration of Dolores Umbridge, she had remained a Ministry factotum throughout the war.

When Harry finally accepted Snape's and Malfoy's circumstances, he had sent Hermione, as his emissary to deliver their pardons. That had been a year before. It had taken her months to pick up Snape's trail, and she suspected he led a semi-public life to further cover Draco's escape.

Snape still protected his charge after all these years.

In any event, Hermione shook her elegant head, her plain brown eyes meeting Snape's. "I'm here for a very simple reason, and I knew you'd be inclined to hex first, run second, and never ask questions. I have two letters each for you and Draco Malfoy. The first is the clemency you were granted while Rufus Scrimgeour was still in office, and which should have been yours as soon as Albus Dumbledore was dead."

Her expression didn't flicker when she said that last - there were too many years and too many deaths between the shock of Dumbledore's and now - but Snape's eyes became opaque and unreadable.

"I will finish my task and then you're free to go. You'll never have to see me again." Without conscious thought, Hermione brushed the strand of black hair which had fallen across Snape's face when she had immobilized him out of his eyes. It was a gentle gesture, and marked the first time Hermione had ever touched him. Her smile was bittersweet.

From a cleverly disguised pocket in the front panel of her dress Hermione withdrew four envelopes, all clearly sealed by the Minister's personal Seal of Office.

She placed the first of two envelopes upon Snape's tuxedo-clad chest. "This is yours. I must deliver Malfoy's to him in person." She glanced at the second envelope before placing it, too, on his chest. "This second letter is an official Pardon from the new Minister for Magic, in case there are any difficulties reinstating your rights and licenses." She met his eyes again, and said very softly, "You need not continue to play a part, Severus. The curtain has fallen upon Voldemort's final act."

She stepped away from his body, all business once again, deftly removing the anti-Apparition wards from the room. "There is a small magical community in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where you will find Owl post. Malfoy can set up a meeting with me, and I'll deliver his letters."

After another couple of moments, Hermione had dismantled the security spells she raised. The only active spells remaining were those holding her prisoner captive. She looked at his rigid body. The years had been good to him, but then she had been watching him perform three to six times a month, and knew how well he had adjusted to a Muggle life.

"I had always wished to learn from you, Professor. One of my regrets is that you weren't able to like me enough to teach me."

Swiftly, before she could give it the second thought, Hermione bent over Severus Snape's body and brushed her lips against his inflexible mouth. Then, with a reverberating _CRACK _and a _THUD_ she was gone, and Sebastian Simon had fallen to the hard wooden floor.

~o0o~


End file.
